Hamish
by Cheelalaucha
Summary: In which the roles are reversed. Scenes of the friendship between Dr. Watson, the brilliant sociopath, and the rather more normal and common Sherlock Holmes. Their friendship continues to be extraordinary in every way. Chapter 5: "The Cure"
1. The Fall

Summary: In which the roles are reversed. Sherlock tries to talk his friend, the brilliant sociopath John H. Watson, out of jumping off the roof of Bart's. Of course, John's motives are too great to stop him.

Note: I love reviews more than candy. :) Thanks for reading.

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He gripped the phone tighter with his left hand, readjusting it at his ear.

"Sherlock, I researched you. Why would I lie about this?"

Sherlock's voice was firm and confused in equal measure. "_You _tell _me_."

John tried one more time to make him believe, used his calm and cool logic again, wielded it to tell a falsehood because he was always just _believed_ by now. "No one's that cleaver, Sherlock, really—your faith in me is kind but unfounded." Toss a bit of mocking in there, too, to help his lie along.

"You are," Sherlock insisted firmly back at him, trying to shove him back from the edge of the building with the force of his voice alone. "You're brilliant!"

John laughed, first in surprise at his friend's loyalty, realized how telling it was, and then laughed mockingly. It tore at his chest a little to do that. Up until now, he'd had no real reason to hide his feelings from Sherlock—Sherlock liked him anyway, despite his, well, himself.

"John, this is insane—get off the ledge!" Sherlock's anger was fiercer than he'd ever heard it before. He'd seen it, but it had never been so well displayed through shouting. John had the thought that he'd probably directed it toward Mycroft enough, what with the problems his brother's drinking caused him.

John worked his jaw and was silent for a moment. He heard Sherlock's heavy breathing through the phone, and for a few seconds he cherished it because he wasn't sure he'd ever hear it again. Molly was crying behind him, making little sniffling noises while she changed the clothes of the dead monster who'd shot himself—the real committer of suicide today, not himself. But Sherlock couldn't know that. Not if he was to stay standing without bullets in his head. He needed to stall until Molly was done and give her enough time to get to the truck.

"It's been fun, Sherlock," he said with a bit of wistfulness, sounding like a dying man to his own ears, even.

"No, no, _don't_ do that, John—you are _not_ going anywhere, do you hear me? Enough with the 'I'm a sociopath and hate myself for it' because it's crap and you know it. You love being brilliant and if it were fake, you couldn't have the kind of audacity that you carry around with you every _fucking_ day like a shield between you and the world! It wouldn't make _sense_, John!" Sherlock's voice was desperate.

It was suddenly easier to fall, knowing that Sherlock understood him. At least one person in the world understood him, better than anyone he'd known twice as long—except perhaps Mrs. Hudson. Though, she more tolerated and loved him than understood him. He was proud of Sherlock for seeing through his lies. It didn't help keep him safe, but it did gain him the highest regard in John's eyes—_The_ John Watson. The Reichenbach hero turned disgrace.

John heard the sound of a body being dragged and knew that it was almost time. The door to the rooftop clicked closed and his shoulders relaxed a little. Falling would be easy. It's the words that would be difficult.

"I made Moriarty up. I'm a fraud, Sherlock. I—I'm so ashamed." John winced at himself and mentally gave himself a kick. Sherlock would see through that later, he feared. John never stated his feelings so bluntly. But, then again, that might help him with his illusion if he "suddenly" decided to become his true self and confess all, including his feelings of shame and inadequacy, however manufactured they were. Sherlock was right—he was a machine—churning out lies and kicking his best friend in the balls as an added bonus. He was shit, but it was for his own good, Sherlock's that is. "The papers are true, you've known they are true, Sherlock. Don't pretend with me, I can see through it."

"Stop this!" Sherlock shouted at him, frustration the only emotion John could make out.

John saw the little dot of Sherlock on the ground start moving closer to Bart's, running. John's heart leapt into his throat and a violent shiver of fear made his legs a little weak. He forced words out of his mouth somehow, bypassing his fear, thankfully. What he said was so forced that his arm came up involuntarily to reinforce it even further. "DON'T!"

Sherlock's dot stopped abruptly and John's fingers relaxed but his arm stayed outstretched with his final plea. "Stay where you are," John gasped, some residual fear spiking his nerves. His voice sounded desperate now, too. John saw Sherlock raise his own hand in some sort of reassurance, in supplication of John's request.

"Okay," Sherlock croaked through the line. "Don't, don't jump, John. Please. I—I need you. You're the only thing keeping me going, sometimes. If you do this—I won't be the same."

John swallowed at a sudden feeling of nausea. Molly was probably ready, waiting in the truck. He had one shot and that shot would likely be straight at whatever tangible bit of friendship that was between him and Sherlock.

John took in a ragged breath and heard himself speaking words he didn't want to hear. "Keep your eyes on me, Sherlock. Watch me." Because if he didn't, he might figure it out or he would see the cyclist coming and dodge him. He couldn't miss that collision. It was a choice between a concussion or dying, and he knew which Sherlock would probably prefer, if given the chance to choose—though he would never choose in favor of himself if it meant John's life in return. Well, Sherlock didn't have to know that bit.

"Why?" Sherlock's voice conveyed his confusion.

"_Just_—" John broke off from the cursing he was going to do and immediately started again. "Just do it, for me, Sherlock. This…" he trailed off and lowered his outstretched hand and watched Sherlock to the same from so far away. "This is my note. Isn't that what people normally do, leave a note before they leave the world?" John asked without meaning to, a final question about the ways of how people were supposed to act, ways he couldn't understand. He knew Sherlock forgave him for asking those kinds of questions. Focus, focus.

Sherlock's voice was level and calmer, as if he held the key to keeping John from jumping and knew it. "And since when have I cared whether you were normal or not?"

Sherlock didn't understand. It was true, if John had been jumping truly because he wanted to die, that might have given him pause, and he applauded Sherlock for realizing that. Such a good friend, Sherlock Holmes. His first, last, and only best friend.

John said into the phone, emotionlessly "Sherlock." Then, brusquely, voice sounding dead of emotion, and utterly, utterly convincing, "'Bye."

John took the phone from his ear and tossed it behind him, the signal to the gifted graffiti artist and avid cycler. John saw the two dots, one of the boy, one of Sherlock, nearing collision, and he knew his moment was now. He took a breath, spoke the word, "Sorry" into the air, leaned back, and gracefully fell off of the rooftop. The air rushed in his ears.


	2. The Journalist and the Genius

Summary: In which the roles are reversed. Scenes of the friendship between Dr. Watson, the brilliant sociopath, and the rather more normal and common Sherlock Holmes. Their friendship continues to be extraordinary in every way.

Note: I love reviews more than candy. :) Thanks for reading.

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"Let's start with the riding crop."

John padded to a seat and set his cane aside automatically. His eyes fixed on the naked body expectantly. Molly Hooper gave a small, nervous laugh somewhere out of his line of vision. She walked closer holding the black instrument, stood next to the body for a second, and then gave a rather pitiful slap to the man's foot. John's jaw worked and his eyes closed as he breathed out once in frustration. Without opening his eyes, he stated lowly, "He is already dead, Miss Hooper. Please try to remember the reason for this experiment. We want _bruises_ not—" _flouncy love taps_. He stopped himself. Though, insulting her would probably be enough to make her leave and discontinue the experiment, so he filed the idea away for later, just in case he needed a quick escape.

John's eyes opened and his face felt stony with the effort he was exerting on not striking verbally. "Again?" he said instead, trying to put enough lilt into his voice to make it not sound strangled behind his frustration. He spent too much energy being _nice_ to people, but that was what the world required of him, it seemed. His leg started tapping of its own accord and he barely noticed. He couldn't get rid of his nerves, but he could ignore them. Bodies were made simply for the transportation of intellect, thought, ideas, advances to the human race. He felt his pride swell a little at that thought and calmed himself. That felt better.

Molly screwed up her face in concentration, ridiculously, and gave a rather more forceful hit to the man's left kneecap.

"Abdomen. More surface area for the bruises to form—easier to study in detail," John said systematically, pulling the thought out of his brain and letting it flow into speech. He stared at the man's abdomen as Molly whipped the corpse rather enthusiastically. She typically—_typically_—took direction well, better than most. That made her marginally less irritating to work with. He didn't hear anyone enter the morgue door, concentrating so on the body, but a spot of light reflected off of the metal around the window and the dot moved from one side of the room to the other. It was a familiar gesture that accompanied the opening of the door, so it wasn't worth bringing into his primary consciousness. He catalogued it, as it were, in "misc. notes" and continued to study the body being thrashed before him. He noted also the pink flush to Molly's skin at the exertion. He found that mildly interesting, even though he didn't find Miss Hooper interesting at all.

Someone cleared their throat standing beside John, but he ignored it. People worth listening to didn't ask for permission to talk, they simply started talking. A major rule of his, really. And he stuck by his rules. It weeded out the "unnecessaries," _those people_. He could also count on two fingers the number of people in the building who ever approached him willingly, and one of them he was watching beat the death out of a deceased former employee of Bart's. So, Stamford then. Mildly irritating also. How was it everyone he knew was at least slightly annoying, why couldn't he know better people?

"John, could I borrow your phone? I left mine at home and the missus will be worrying," Stamford injected kindly, needing the phone badly enough to be more direct than usual. Frankly, it was refreshing from the man, so John pulled out his phone and held it out to his right without breaking eye contact with the cadaver. The slaps of the riding crop were more noticeable now that Stamford's voice was there compliment it in tone. His focus dropped the slightest, which he couldn't control and made him scowl a little.

"Have you—" Stamford began lightly.

"No," John cut him off and checked his watch, the experiment complete. Twenty minutes would do for the wait. "Enough," he spoke to Molly, who stopped mid-thwack and breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out to grab his cane and decided to head this off early. His patience was thinner for so early in the day, and it had started out so well. Peace and quiet for his last day in the outskirts of town, helpful for clear thought streams. Moving in with the interesting bubbling of life around him. The air almost smelled crisper with anticipation for it. But, he did need someone else's contribution, unfortunately—possibly a worthy trade if able to find the right person—_not_ irritating. "Do you have an aversion to the piano?" he spoke aloud, getting up to examine how the body was responding so far. Not much, yet. Vague signs at best. Probably would become more prominent with some time.

No one spoke until an unfamiliar voice, deeper than expected, said with surprise, "Me?"

_Obviously_. Not a good start.

He spoke up again, haltingly, as though afraid he'd misunderstood something. "Not if the one playing is marginally skilled with the instrument."

That made John's head turn, simply because it was an interesting response. Stamford held out his phone to return to him, presumably had texted his wife, and John accepted it with eyes on this new man. He seemed reasonably trendy but not the stereotypical, so he was in front of a lot of people fairly often, or something close to that. John saw the oddly placed pencil that stuck out of the pocket of the man's jacket. Not for sketching, simple pencil sold at any reasonably stocked shop. Writing then, probably, and the friendly smile seemed too stuck in place to be anything less than over-rehearsed. So, used to being presented to people, put up a good presentation when necessary. The side-long looks of mild discomfort at the dead body in the room rather gave him away, really. John flicked his eyes away again the next moment, losing interest as quickly as it had come.

"They say that journalists are the mice, or even rats, of all writing professions," John offered rudely to scare him off. He really didn't do journalists, too much work to keep ahead of the game.

The man's look slipped a little and he clasped his hands behind his back. He leaned forward a bit with his inquiry of, "Who says that?" rather too smartly for John's taste.

Hm, it was interesting that he bothered to stick around after his comment. No response to his deduction of his profession? Probably had no idea. John straightened up with only a mildly concealed grimace at how his leg muscle pulled in his bad leg.

Sherlock studied Dr. Watson and thought him rather standoffish, though that wasn't really a bad thing, just a character trait.

"I do," the doctor replied just as smartly, his look slightly arrogant, but Sherlock pressed on. He really did need this flat share.

"It's just as well that I'm not one any longer. Actually, I came to enquire about the prospect of—"

"Don't bother," the doctor interrupted again, more rudely this time. "And, you'll always be one," he said with finality.

Sherlock's face stayed impassive but underneath he was imagining the doctor's hair spontaneously being set aflame. This man was obviously not what he was looking for, though, to be fair, he would have taken just about anything. He wasn't going back home or enduring his brother's company for another second more. Sleeping in the homeless shelter last night had been wrong, he knew. He'd taken up someone else's chance at a relatively good night's sleep. However, he'd sooner sleep in a bin than speak to Mycroft.

Sherlock tilted his head a little to the side as he watched Dr. Watson. The man limped and had a cane, an awful scowl, and how he'd spoken was even a little rough for speaking to one of his friends and a harmless stranger like himself. How were he and Stamford friends, anyway? Putting them together was like a contradiction in terms. He glanced quickly at Stamford, as if his face or clothes would hold the answer, but of course they didn't.

The doctor in his tan jacket walked with effort to the door, avoiding him by going past on Stamford's side. Dr. Watson said "Afternoon," with a nod at Stamford, probably to reassure the man it wasn't him he had a problem with just _the journalist_. Heaven forbid he was a writer of information, truth, life. Yes, how awful. The man's manners were appalling. The doctor exited quietly.

"Sorry 'bout him," Stamford apologized, shaking his head and shifting awkwardly. "It was a long shot, though, I rather thought it would be you who disapproved of _him_. He can be a bit much to handle." Stamford put his hands in his coat pockets and rocked on his heels.

"Handle?" Sherlock repeated out loud. "His temper, you mean?"

Stamford laughed and looked at the woman fiddling with the corpse. He didn't reply.

Sherlock watched the woman working too. She seemed very unaffected by everything, the corpse, the conversation, the doctor's standoffishness. He admired that trait in people so long as it didn't mean they were completely vacant altogether. He wondered absently if she was. He asked Stamford without looking away from the woman, "If he'd already said no, I'm a bit mystified as to why we came by in the first place. Did you think he'd change his mind?"

Stamford seemed confused and shared a look with the woman there. She spoke up, directly to him and he liked the tone of her voice. "Forgive me for intruding, but that was the first time he'd met you, I think." Stamford nodded, face jovial as always. "He's a bit of an impression-maker," she said and giggled a little at the obvious, though awkward joke.

Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets also and looked between the two of them. He must be missing something. He knew he was going to sound stupid, so he just got it over with. He nodded to Stamford. "You told him about me," he said matter-of-factly. "About wanting to be flat mates," he said more specifically.

Stamford shook his head said with a laugh, "Not a word."

Sherlock's face contorted in very obvious confusion. He glanced back at the closed door that the doctor had left out of and back to Stamford and the woman who had gazes of equal mirth on their faces that he didn't understand, and that irritated him. He tried not to sound short when he said, "Then how did he..?"

"He has a peculiar talent for deduction," Stamford told him.

Sherlock was missing something still. "You mean he just—"

"Figured all that out just by looking at you, yes," Stamford finished for him. He said a goodbye to the woman, calling her Molly.

Sherlock followed him out the door, saying goodbye also to the woman. He asked Stamford in the hall, "How did he do that?"

Stamford shrugged and led the way out of the building. Sherlock was momentarily side-tracked from thoughts of where he would sleep tonight by the interesting conundrum, Dr. Watson. He was thankful for the distraction, honestly.


	3. The Cab and the Cane

This chapter follows the events of the original Pilot episode, to some extent. Thanks for reading!

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"Taxi!"

Sherlock raised his right hand as his other gripped his coat closed. The cab passed by without hesitation and Sherlock huffed in frustration. He supposed he had about twenty minutes, if he was lucky, before the rain finally made it from the dark clouds to the dark streets, and he'd have nowhere to escape it. He'd left Mike some time ago since the man had needed to get home. Sherlock didn't voice his need for a place to stay—the thought made him wince and reminded him of Mycroft's drunken rants against him. _Lazy git, need a real job, Don't you have any friends to inflict yourself upon?_ Mycroft was a miserable man but a man with a spare, rent-free room for him.

Sherlock padded down the road, head down, hiding his face from the chilled wind.

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John slid his phone shut with a snap, an unhappy man indeed. Molly was being quite unhelpful, an unusual occurrence. She probably was on a blind date—just the sort of scheme she would fall for, when she wasn't busy falling over her own feet or simply air itself. The reply text had been short and regretful-toned, not a Mollyesque text, so her friends were likely again pressuring her to stay away from him because he was "a grumpy bastard." Well, they would all be in unhappy marriages at forty and being tormented by children and their children's nasty friends. He was fine with that knowledge and amused that he alone had that insight. Either way, he would have to go to Angelo's alone.

John used his cane to bring his body up to a standing position and made his way to the door and out of it. He didn't bother to say anything to Mrs. Hudson. She'd been short with him after he'd yelled for ages to get her to send that text. He didn't require anything else from her and she would probably rather be left alone.

The walk was slow and annoying and he had very little to occupy himself with during it, save for his wonderings about the serial suicide murderer. It wasn't much.

He found himself seated at the window, watching and waiting, eyes and mind sharper than the blade of a sword.

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The rain had started to thunder down with only a small rumble of thunder for a split-second warning.

Sherlock tucked into his coat more and ducked into the first place he saw that looked warm. Problem was, he had enough for either a short cab ride to the nearest shelter or else something very small at the restaurant he now found himself in. That was unfortunate. He needed to make a split-second decision. Cab meant waiting in the rain for one and then staying again in the cramped space that wasn't guaranteed to have any spare beds available, even. It was not likely to have any, he realized belatedly, what with the rain and storm. Sherlock sighed agitatedly and ruffled his hair with annoyance. Well, he might as well have a drink before he called Mycroft for a ride. Or maybe he would just sleep in the street or something, Sherlock groused to himself.

He was directed to a seat that faced the door, a bit back from the entrance. He asked for a glass of white wine and a very small salad. His stomach rumbled quietly at the prospect of food so he looked around for something to distract himself with. His eyes ran over the various couples seated around him. The place was small but seemed to fit a good amount of diners nonetheless.

Sherlock found himself studying a pretty woman who was sat with someone else a large enough distance away to discretely admire the curl of her hair as it touched her shoulder on one side. He realized that he was staring after a moment. Well, she was a pretty girl. His eyes ran over her face then, away from her flowing hair, and he mentally backed off a bit, disliking the serious look that she wore. She did not look fun at all. That kind of ruined it for him a bit. Seriousness in large quantities was dull. The man sitting with her looked equally serious, and he couldn't stop the thought _Better you than me_.

"Angelo, a glass of white wine! Now, hurry!"

Sherlock's eyes darted automatically over to the direction of the shouting man. His voice was familiar and he recognized him immediately, having met him only hours before. He felt a sense of fascination instead of the residual indignation he should be feeling. His fascination only grew when the man tossed the wine into his own face and hobbled quickly to the exit. Dr. Watson was even more bizarre than he'd originally thought.

Sherlock's salad had yet to arrive, so he wasted no time in grabbing his glass and moving to the seat that Dr. Watson had just vacated by the window. Looking out, he spotted Dr. Watson after a moment; the man was obnoxiously weaving through people and cars. It might seem pointless, except Sherlock spotted a cab right in the direction the bizarre man was heading. Why all the show of drunkenness? And the cab's light was off. The man was acting, obviously, but to what end? Sherlock glanced down a second while thinking and noticed his salad sitting there. Oh, he hadn't even noticed someone bringing it to him. That was ruder than he tended to be. He picked up his fork and stabbed blindly while his eyes drifted up to watch the scene Dr. Watson was making. The man could barely walk as it was; it was difficult for Sherlock to pick up which hobbles were real and which were acting.

Sherlock's back straightened unconsciously when Dr. Watson tapped on the window of the man's cab. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up a little. Something wasn't right about this scene, though he couldn't explain what about it worried him. The cabbie must have refused the man, he looked annoyed and tried asking again and just kept bugging the man. Sherlock's fork was suspended over his bowl, forgotten completely. _What is he doing? He's going to get his foot run over when that cabbie has had enough._ But then Dr. Watson gave up, walking away a few steps and fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Sherlock relaxed and finally finished getting the salad on his fork to his mouth. He chewed and glanced away, uninterested since he'd obviously misjudged the situation and worried for no reason.

"Sher—Sher—lo—ck!"

Glancing up again quickly, just about to eat another bite, Sherlock's eyes found the scene once more. Dr. Watson was being stuffed into the back of the cab by a short man in a hat. Dr. Watson gave almost no fight, like he wanted to be stuffed into the back of the cab. Sherlock was going to leave him to it except he saw the doctor's hand grip the side of the cab and he gave a kick to the cabbie he was wrestling with. The man bent over only for a second before finally getting the doctor into the back and slamming the door closed. The man got in the cab and they sped away. As they did, Dr. Watson's cane fell over, forgotten where it had been leaning against the back of the cab.

Sherlock's fork clattered against the bowl and he fumbled with is money to get it on the table. He fled the restaurant. He grabbed the cane and ran after the cab but lost them two streets later.

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A/N: The more comments I recieve, the better I can make the story (with your feedback). So, the more I get, the longer I'll make the chapters. Happy reading.


	4. The Text and the Tremor

Warning for this chapter: Swearing.  
Note: This is set from the same day as chapter one, just after the fall.

**_I wander thro' each charter'd street,_**

**_Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,_**

**_And mark in every face I meet_**

**_Marks of weakness, marks of woe…_**

**_._**

**_How the Chimney-sweeper's cry_**

**_Every blackening Church appalls,_**

**_And the hapless Soldier's sigh_**

**_Runs in blood down Palace walls._**

**_._**

**— Excerpt from William Blake's poem "Londo****n"**

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The flat was empty and quiet. No lights were on and only a small amount of sunlight made it through the window.

Sherlock closed the door behind himself and surveyed the sitting room. It was bleak.

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"Leave me alone."

Sherlock gave his phone a sharp look and then resumed his staring straight ahead at the kitchen table. A bird flew by outside the window, just a dark blur of movement, and Sherlock jumped in surprise. Without much thought, he loudly pushed back his chair and stomped to the window. Reaching his hand out, he roughly jerked the curtain closed. He resumed his previous position of thought and stared at the table and ignored his phone occasionally lighting up in front of him for the rest of the hour.

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The next day, he did the same, and the day after that. The curtains remained closed and his phone untouched. His back was getting a dull ache.

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On the third day, he allowed himself a break to shower, trying not to think of how different he felt from the last time he'd had one. He tried not to think at all. As a result, his expression was stony and his eyes intense. He reached for the soap and the shampoo without thinking and did his usual routine while he focused on thinking about nothing. When he snapped the shampoo closed, the passing idea occurred to him that something was different. He paused and stared ahead.

With a start, he realized he was holding John's shampoo instead of his own. He'd run out of his own the day before events had happened and hadn't been to the shop to get more.

With a quick intake of breath, Sherlock's grip weakened and the heavy bottle slipped through his fingers and clattered loudly to the floor of the shower. Sherlock jumped at the sound after three days of quiet in the flat. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and his body tensed. There was only one second of stillness before he stepped under the water directly and violently scrubbed the shampoo from his hair.

"_Fuck_."

The hand that had gripped the bottle now shook when he used it to steady himself against the wall. He repeated the expletive and hit his hand uselessly against the tile wall. Still though, his tremor had returned with a vengeance. The only man who could cure him was now laying in a box in the ground, his insides washed from the pavement by a cleanup crew, his absence haunting the flat. He'd had fucking enough reason to kill himself in his life, why did John think he had the right to do that? Maybe he had just as much reason to do so, but then why hadn't he said anything? He was his best, possibly only, friend and there had been no communication whatsoever. Fucking selfish bastard. He needed John to sort him out, return from the dead, his caustic comments and all.

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He didn't go to the funeral.

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On the fourth day, he munched on crackers and cheese. He drank lukewarm water in a plain glass, and he didn't bother with napkins or places. Crumbs landed where they would and he ignored them. Who was going to complain?

His phone lit up only once and he saw Mycroft's name appear. He read the first line of text that showed up automatically: "_10 minutes._"

Sherlock scowled, picked up his phone, and replied with simply a blank message. He wasn't about to open the door for Mycroft, and he didn't fancy listening to him bang on the door for an hour. He let his phone clatter onto the table and he crossed his arms.

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Finally, on the seventh evening, he got what he'd been expecting. Or at least what he'd been hoping for. A number he didn't recognize sent him a text. He opened it immediately, his limbs stiff from being still for so long. He was perplexed at the body of the text. It simply read: "_Eat._" He stared at it a moment, trying to draw any other meaning from it than the obvious one. Was that code for something? He and John had no code like that. So… just a text then. A random text to a mistyped or outdated phone number. There was no one else in their—his—their—_the_ flat, and the windows were closed, so no one else could know whether he was eating or not. Even John, if he were still alive somewhere, could not see through walls. And why send a message so trivial?

_Well_, he thought with a sigh, _easy enough answer to that_. It was just a miss-sent message. He deleted the text and left his phone on the table. He was going out.

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There had been nothing in the flat the day of and Sherlock hadn't been out of it for a week. He couldn't be eating anything more than the single tin of beans that had remained and the moldy cheese in the door of the fridge. After his experiment with the head, Sherlock had refrained from buying too many perishables, lest he need to set his food next to John's saliva experiment. There wasn't a high chance of cross-contamination, but Sherlock had insisted.

John waited a week, only guessing at what might be a "proper" amount of time for the stages of grief to run their course. John didn't think it would be long; Sherlock wasn't overly-emotional and he had no family that he was close to who would reopen the subject to him, thus prolonging the process. But he hadn't gone out; Sherlock had remained in the flat, and Mrs. Hudson had left two days ago with a suitcase—probably visiting her distant cousin in Scotland again—so no one had gotten food for him and he hadn't gotten it for himself.

That hadn't been the reaction that he'd been hoping for. John had expected Mycroft to come over by now; the man took every advantage he could of the journalist; he fully expected the man to convince Sherlock to move back in with him so that he'd have someone to take care of him if he drank too much. It wouldn't be the first time. He typed out a text and sent it.

"_Eat._"

Ten minutes later, he spotted Sherlock leaving the flat; he looked determined with his hands in his pockets, his collar up in the cold weather. He was pale in the low light and that was worrying. What was more worrying was that John followed his straight to a shop that exclusively sold hard spirits.

John crouched and peered through the low window. He was getting dirt on his knees.

"Don't you dare, Sherlock," John whispered.

Sherlock was trying to force his hand, make him reveal himself if he was still alive. They both knew how dangerous alcohol was in his family, with Mycroft's and their parent's histories. Well, Dr. John Watson was dead, and he would have to stay that way for a while. He'd be on the first plane out of London that Harry could get for him. He didn't care what strings she had to pull. He wasn't going to watch a train wreck that he could do nothing about, and he certainly wasn't going to put Sherlock's life in any more danger than he had already.


	5. The Cure

I spied John fiddling with his phone and couldn't stop myself from fidgeting. I looked away as John glanced surreptitiously over at me and away again. There was an air of awkwardness between us and I fidgeted again.

"You have concerns."

I hesitated.

John laughed mockingly and watched the scenery pass outside the window. "You're not very talkative for a journalist, especially an international one."

My head whipped 'round to search his face. "So you have heard of me?" I said with an edge in my voice. He'd recognized my name before, that's how he'd known about me. John huffed and made a noise clearly meant to be reproachful.

"Please. Your whole attitude screams it; you're like an open book to me, Holmes. I'm a genius, after all." John's tone was self-deprecating and I found that interesting. I was usually more down on myself than anyone I knew; it made a change to hear someone else doing it. I cleared my throat and went on.

"How do you know who I am?" I asked outright, flatly. I openly stared at the side of his face as his eyes moved from his phone to the scenery. I realized now his blank look to mean that he wasn't actually seeing what was passing in the window; he must be thinking of something else. John "hmm"ed and didn't reply at first. He only spoke after two minutes of silence besides the rumbling of the car.

"There are things you don't want me to say. I've learned to never answer anyone's questions but my own. We're almost there." John put his phone away and didn't speak for the rest of the journey. I refused to look at him again, annoyed by his reticence.

**.O.O.**

A woman lay dead on the floor of an otherwise empty and dirty room.

"What am I doing here?"

"Helping me with this case," came the bored reply.

My eyes narrowed at him and I said factually, "I'm supposed to be helping you with the rent—only."

John turned and looked me up and down very quickly. He stepped closer and lowered his voice so that none of forensics could overhear. There was a knowing sort of happy lilt to his voice that grated on me a little. "We both know you find this interesting. We both know you can't pay any rent. We also both know that you're acclimatized to violence and the unhappier side of things—so you tell me what you'd rather be doing right now." He grinned at me as if he had picked out my desires and laid them before me. Whatever way he claimed his skill for deduction or mind games, it sent a shiver down my back. Very few people were I close to and fewer than that knew such things about me. Our only mutual contact, Stamford, knew very little about me really, so where did he get it? Who was his source?

John looked disappointed then. He'd been studying my face eagerly but that changed. "Journalist. Always the worst. _Always_." John turned away in mild disgust, and I felt compelled to remind him again, when I didn't have the voice for anything else, that I most certainly wasn't a journalist anymore, so that rule didn't apply—whatever messed-up conclusion he'd come to about me. "A rule is a rule for a reason; it never lies."

"Did you just make that up? You're just having a go at me now, aren't you?" I glared at him and turned away to leave the room. I got out the doorway to the room and whispered, "Sick bastard." I whipped around at him to tell him off and was surprised to see that he was right behind me, expression stony. I spat, "You're just a know-it-all prick who likes to mess with people's minds. Good luck with that—I don't want any part of it. Let me know if you ever give up the act and want to join us humans again. Y'know, of 'normal non-intelligence.'"

John's face got darker and his tone held malice next. He bit out, "You have an intermittent tremor in your right hand. You don't acknowledge it.. but you don't seem surprised by my mentioning it, ergo you knew about it which means that you're _letting _it continue. Trauma. Family-related? Otherwise, why would you go gallivanting to other countries where people don't speak your native tongue?" John stepped forward and I stepped back, my eye fixed on his in quiet amazement and not a little fear. "You have family, but you stay away from them. You don't seem withdrawn enough to be an orphan, nor sad enough to be completely on your own… Who is it? Aunt? Sister? Cousin? Too-friendly or overly-strict prep school teacher?" John looked fascinated but my muscles were locked. I couldn't look him in the eye, I was so furious with him, whoever this man presumed to be. He was right.

I managed to get out, "None of your—" in a breathy sort of try at a retort, but John went on. I could have punched him, but I'd had far worse taunts before and from more intimidating, drunk men. One man. My older brother could never accept that he wasn't exceptional, merely ordinary. "Decent" didn't fall under that aspiration to be more than normal.

John advanced again but I was right by a wall and had nowhere to go. The scene was strikingly familiar to the one I'd been in only weeks before. Back then, I had cowered, but this time I was too surprised and bombarded to even flinch.

"You're lazy, a coward, disrespectful, too thin," I did flinch then, "and don't live up to the name of Holmes." John stared at me intently as if he were waiting for something. He must have found it in my eyes because his expression changed. His voice was quiet then and sounded regretful. His expression was sympathetic suddenly. He took a step back and looked away down the quiet hall of the upper level of the house. Everyone else was setting up downstairs and we were alone. "Only a family member could do that kind of damage. I can read it in your face, your body language, the way you talk, your responses, even the way you dress, Sherlock. You literally have no reason to let that git get to you. _Trust_ me. Just because.. he?.. is older, it doesn't make him right. He's bored, and he takes it out on you. You ought to be proud of yourse—"

I hit him with my right fist and then I ran. I didn't have another tremor until the time I used the wrong shampoo.


End file.
